


The One That Got Away

by yunnikakennings



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Childhood Friends, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24915193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yunnikakennings/pseuds/yunnikakennings
Summary: Simon Snow and Basilton Pitch were childhood friends. Basilton was too good for the scruffy Snow boy who lived in the mad house away from town. Everyone said so. Everyone knew so. Because it was true. It was really too bad that that Pitch boy didn’t know any better.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	The One That Got Away

**Author's Note:**

> “There are no coincidences, only encounters.”   
> -Paul Éluard

**Baz**

Vera is late. She ought to be here by now and she’s rarely late, if ever. He frowns a little, his face flushed in the cold of the December gales, shivering slightly in his pale grey overcoat. Of course, there was always the offer to wait indoors for Vera, oh indeed, Mrs. Wilson would have been all too pleased to have him stay for a cup of tea and chat about the comings and going of the Pitches- but Vera has never failed to be punctual and so he has never taken her up on the offer.

But he’d rather wait indoors with a warm earl grey and subject himself to her grueling gossip than shake in his boots out here. Pursing his lips with displeasure, he tightens his grip on the violin case, willing himself to knock. _Please Mrs. Wilson, may I wait inside?_ He raises his hand to _knock_ , still reluctant, then peeks over his shoulder one last time in the hope that Vera would come running up the rocky path.

“Hey. Who’re you?”

He jumps at the rough, unfamiliar voice. A head pops up over the worn wooden fence separating Mrs. Wilson’s prim and proper house from the supposed barbarians next door. _“A Madman, I tell you”, she sneered down at her green tea the first and last time he had ever taken her up on her offer, “he went round the bend once his wife died.” She blinked, then, a thought hitting her, “Or maybe she died because he was loopy. A drunkard- complete maniac, that one. And the ratty rascal of a son comes and wrecks my garden every once in a while, but what do you expect. No doubt, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”_

“I said, who’re you!” the boy asked again, blue eyes half-suspicious, half-curious, fingers clinging to the fence to prop himself up- probably too short to look over the fence without tiptoeing. Baz hesitates a little, before politeness and admittedly some curiosity about the odd boy, prompts him to reply.

“Baz,” he replies coolly, “Basilton Pitch.” He’s long learned not to offer his first name to children his age. The boy is silent. Arching his eyebrows, he prods the boy, “And you are?”

“Snow. Simon Snow,” the boy mutters, eyes darting to the side as the words fall from his lips.

**Simon**

He hunches slightly as he drops the damning alliteration of his name. _Snow. Simon Snow. The town ladies smirk at the name. The men swear. They all drag the name through the markets, through the dirt, slime it with tales of bastard and drunkard until Snow is black as grime and rotten at it’s core._

“Okay,” the posh boy shrugs as casually as he can, obviously still in distress because of the cold. Simon grins, he’s got no problem with the cold, not when he spends as much time as possible out of the house even when it’s winter. The boy seems nice, he doesn’t shrink back like the other children do when he drops his name, nor does he have an adult nearby to haul him away from that _dastardly child_.

“Wanna play?” he asks dropping himself back on the grass for a moment, just to grab his red ball, before hoisting himself back up again, this time balancing with his stomach across the fence instead of just his chin. Baz ( _Basilton. Huh. Guess he’s probably from up the other neighborhood.)_ purses his lips, glancing back over his shoulder. Like he’s looking for a way out to let Simon down politely. His heart sinks a little.

“Never mind,” he mutters quickly, as he wriggles back over the fence and drops himself down on the weed patch below. _He probably heard stories from that wretched witch next door_ , Simon thinks bitterly.

“Hey wait,” comes the frantic reply from behind the fence, he hears a soft thud as the fence shakes a little with the sudden weight. The boy peers back down at him, grey eyes a little less calm and collected, “I mean, we can chat if you want but I can’t go over and play with you now, not while I’m waiting for Vera”.

Vera? “My nanny,” he explains. _But he’s probably the same age as me_ , Simon thinks, pressing his lips together to keep from laughing. _Definitely from up the other neighborhood._ “So, what’re you doing here?” he blurts.

**Baz**

“Violin lesson,” he says, raising his violin case a little, “Ma says Wilson’s the best in town”. Simon shrugs uneasily, “Yeah…”

He then recalls a detail that had last set Mrs. Wilson on a rant. “Is it true that you stole her cherries?” he asks, his tone carefully neutral.

“She had way too many cherries!” came the defensive reply, “no way that hag could finish them all!” The bronze-haired boy flushed, either with embarrassment or indignation and he bites back a laugh. _Miserly old hag indeed. Not that he would ever say so._

“Have you ever tried sour cherry scones” he asks, “since you…love cherries so much? Well, assuming you love cherries and don’t steal them just to spite her.” Simon cracks an excited smile.

“I haven’t, no- we, don’t exactly get cherries except…”, he trails off, lips twisting wryly, “except across the fence.”

His mom makes the most amazing scones though. Rich and buttery, with cherries that burst with every bite of the sour cherry scone. It’s her favorite dish. It’s better hot though, and he quite obviously cannot possibly stroll up to Mrs. Wilson’s house for violin lessons with a tray full of piping hot sour cherry scones.

He can’t possibly bring Simon over either, can he? He’s never had a friend over before, except for the children that Father’s relatives bring over during festive occasions. And he’s just met him, it can’t possibly be a good idea to let invite a stranger home.

“Have _you_ tried them before?” Simon questions, face lit up, “I’ve never tried a _scone_ before. What’s a _scone_? But cherry-anything should be so, so good!” He takes one look at the scruffy boy in front of him and can’t resist.

“My ma makes the best,” he finds himself saying, “if my parents allow and your parents allow, maybe you could come over some time?”

“I don’t have a ma and my dad couldn’t care less where I go,” the boy laughs. But it’s not funny. It’s not. It makes his stomach queasy at the thought. Simon was practically a tetherless Peter Pan on a cherry high- he wasn’t quite sure what he felt about that.

Just then, he hears hurried footsteps shuffling up the path to Mrs. Wilson’s little white cottage. “I’ll ask my ma, if you’d like to come over?” he asks again.

“Sure,” the boy grins and it’s the kind of smile with cutting charm that could hook hearts and make anyone want to stay. He wonders again why Mr Snow doesn’t care.


End file.
